The Surprise I Prepared After Reading My Girlfriend’s Chats

I used to love Fridays. I knew that at exactly eight o’clock Camila would come out of the soccer field with her bag slung over her shoulder, her cheeks still red from the effort, and she’d hang herself around my neck with that half-shy smile that melted me from day one. We’d been like that for almost two years. Her studying cosmetology, me working at the shop, Fridays belonged to us.

Camila had a body people stared at in the street, even though she pretended not to notice. Wide hips, a narrow waist, very fair skin that turned pink when she laughed. She wore her black hair straight over her shoulders and thin nipple piercings that only I knew about. She dressed sweet, almost childish, but underneath she always wore the tiniest underwear imaginable. String thongs that disappeared between her ass cheeks, sheer lace bras that let the pink of her areolas show through and those little silver rings piercing her hard nipples. That contradiction drove me insane. I’d fucked her hundreds of times and I still got a hard-on every time I saw her strip.

A few months ago I started noticing things. Scraped knees she explained away as falls. A friend who would giggle softly when I asked. A new perfume that showed up in her backpack. Her cunt wetter than usual when she came back from her supposed training sessions, as if she’d already been fed somewhere else. Nothing concrete, nothing I could point to. Just a stubborn unease lodged behind my stomach, like when you know something doesn’t fit but can’t find the warped piece.

One Friday I decided to go earlier. Instead of parking in front of the park, I left the bike two blocks away and walked along the tall bushes that border the field. It was six ten. The sun was low, the guys were already leaving, and the place had that heavy stillness of empty places.

Then I heard voices. Not laughter, murmurs. And under the murmurs, a wet, rhythmic noise, unmistakable. I crouched among the leaves. It took me a few seconds to understand what I was looking at.

Camila was kneeling in the dirt, her mouth open and a thick cock sliding in and out between her lips. In front of her, with his back against a tree, was Rodrigo, the guy from the team who always hugged her a little too long. His hands were tangled in her hair, guiding her head, setting the pace, and Camila let him do it with a concentration I had never seen in her. She sucked the whole dick down to the base, pressed her nose into the pubic hair, choked and stuck her tongue out to lick his balls before swallowing him again. A strand of spit hung from her chin. Her eyes were half-closed, shining, as if she were eating something delicious.

—That’s it, slut, that’s how I like it —he murmured—. Suck me dry, don’t leave me a drop.

And she nodded with his cock in her mouth, moaning, with a guttural sound I had never once pulled out of her in two years.

***

I didn’t move. I didn’t yell. I did nothing. I stayed there among the leaves, watching my girlfriend suck off another man’s cock with a shamelessness that felt foreign to me. With me, she always gave me head with embarrassment, with a certain sweet clumsiness, hiding her face behind her hair, spitting if the cum got into her mouth. There, though, she took him down her throat like it was the only thing she wanted in the world. At one point, he tugged her shirt strap down and uncovered a breast. The silver piercing gleamed in the afternoon sun. He pinched her nipple between two fingers, twisted it, and Camila moaned with her mouth full. She didn’t cover herself. She didn’t even open her eyes. She brought one hand to her other breast, pinched the other nipple, stretched it.

Her other hand went straight between her legs. She hiked up her skirt a little and started rubbing her cunt over her panties, rolling her hips, grinding her fingers while she kept sucking. The fabric was soaked through in seconds. I watched her pull the string aside and shove two fingers inside to the knuckles, with a trained, sure movement she had never once shown me.

Rodrigo grabbed her hair harder, drove her against his pubes and let out a long groan. Camila opened wider, stuck out her tongue, and he started coming. Jet after jet, thick semen spilling onto her tongue, her lips, her chin, the exposed neckline of her shirt. She swallowed some and let the rest run down over her breast, over the piercing, as if she loved feeling marked. When he was done, she licked the head slowly, tenderly, gathering the last drops.

Then she lifted her face, smiled at him with shiny lips, and wiped her mouth with a napkin as if she’d just finished an ice cream. She fixed her hair. She stood up. She brushed the dirt off her knees. The whole scene lasted less time than it takes water to boil, and I was still frozen among the bushes, witness to my own replacement.

But they didn’t leave. They talked for a while. Shared a bottle of water. And then I saw her turn around, lean against the same tree, hike her skirt to her waist, and offer him her ass. The panties had ridden up into a string between her cheeks. Rodrigo came up behind her, already hard again, and started rubbing against her with calculated slowness, sliding the head of his cock between her cheeks, down to the entrance of her cunt, and back up again. Camila arched her back, looking for him. She moved the fabric aside herself with two fingers, spread open, asking without saying a word.

He pushed into her slowly. I watched the whole cock disappear inside my girlfriend, watched her let out a long moan she muffled against her own forearm. Then he grabbed her hips and started fucking her against the tree, hard, dry thrusts that made her ass slap against his pubes with a sound of wet flesh. Camila moaned low, biting her lip, rocking her ass back to take him better. Her breasts bounced under her shirt, the piercings pressing against the fabric. He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, dug his fingers into her waist. A small tremor, a strangled gasp, silence. Camila straightening her skirt with the slow calm of someone hiding a secret under her skin, a white thread running down the inside of her thigh.

When she came out of the park and found me waiting for her at our usual corner, she kissed me like any other Friday. She smelled like grass, sweat, semen, and something else I didn’t want to identify.

—Something wrong? —she asked on the way.

—Nothing —I told her—. Tired, that’s all.

***

That night I asked her to stay over at my place. She said yes as if the day had been the most normal thing in the world. We had dinner, watched a movie, she let me stroke her hair on the couch as always. I kept replaying the image of her knees sunk in the dirt, the strand of cum hanging from her chin, her ass lifted against the tree.

In bed she kissed me hungrily, climbed on top of me. I didn’t say anything. I let her do it. She pulled down her underwear and I saw her for the first time with different eyes: her cunt swollen, still red, still used. She sat on my cock and started riding me slowly. I felt the inside of her wetter than usual, hotter, as if somebody had recently moved in there. I fucked her in silence, watching her tits bounce, the piercings drawing circles in the air, her mouth open in a gasp that no longer belonged to me. I came inside her without warning, something she always asked me not to do. She didn’t complain. She let herself fall onto my chest, breathing hard, satisfied, not knowing I had just mixed my semen with another man’s.

Camila had the habit of falling asleep watching series on my phone. That night I asked to borrow hers, saying I wanted to download an app. She handed it over without thinking, already half asleep.

I waited until her breathing evened out. Then I locked myself in the bathroom with the phone in my hand. I’d known the passcode for months; she’d given it to me to show me pictures. I had never opened her chats. That night I did.

Rodrigo’s chat was pinned at the top. There were voice notes. I listened to one. His voice sounded different, faster, more adult, almost breathless. He told her that the first time his legs had trembled when he shoved his cock down her throat, that she had felt dirty swallowing his load, but also free. That she couldn’t think about anything else on Wednesday nights, that she touched herself imagining his dick splitting her cunt in two.

There was a photo of her sitting on the grass, wearing a thin blouse that spared nothing. Her nipples pressed against the fabric and the piercings showed through. The pose was confident, a confidence she had never used with me. There was another: Camila on her knees in front of a mirror, mouth open, tongue out, a stream of semen streaking across her face from forehead to chin, and a proud smile. There was a video. Five seconds were enough to recognize her mouth swallowing an entire dark cock, the angle from above, the muffled sound she made when she was focused on sucking. You could see her throat bulging with each thrust.

Lower down, a message from him:

—Did you like it more than with your boyfriend?

Camila had replied with an emoji. One of those that says nothing but implies everything. Then:

—I don’t know. I just let myself go. No one had ever fucked me like that.

I let myself go. No one had ever fucked me like that. That’s how she summed it up.

***

I kept scrolling. I found two more chats, pinned too, with two names I had never heard before: Daniel and Sebastián.

Daniel’s was the most recent. They coordinated hookups in a house he rented on Thursday afternoons. There were plans, requests for specific clothes, photos of her in front of the bathroom mirror wearing thongs I thought I had once seen tucked in a drawer she wouldn’t let me get near. In one photo she spread her ass cheeks with both hands and showed her pink asshole, dilated, shiny with lube. Under it she wrote: “just like I like you to leave it for me afterward.” In another she was back to the mirror, looking over her shoulder, her cunt opened between two fingers and a pink vibrator halfway in. In a message he wrote:

—Wear the short skirt and no panties. Tonight dessert is a double portion, front and back.

She replied with laughs and emojis and a short audio: “bring good lube, last time you had me walking weird for two days.” The tone was light, playful, almost adolescent. It was a Camila I didn’t know, and that clearly had existed for a long time. A Camila who let herself get fucked in the ass, who asked for more, who walked out of that house moving funny and smiled at me at the door of my workshop as if she’d been to a yoga class.

Sebastián’s was something else. Thicker, darker. He talked to her like he owned her, gave her orders, told her how to dress, demanded punctuality. He sent long voice notes describing what he was going to do to her: how he’d tie her up face down, how he’d fill her mouth with his cock until tears ran down her mascara, how he’d spank her until her ass was red before fucking her. Camila answered briefly, submissively, with a “yes, daddy” that cut off my breath. “Yes, daddy, I’ll do whatever you tell me.” “Yes, daddy, I’m your little slut.” “Yes, daddy, I’ll open up whenever you want.”

There were photos of her in positions I had never asked her for and she had never accepted when I hinted at anything similar. Camila on her knees with a leather collar and a leash in his hand. Camila face down with red marks crossing her ass. Camila with her mouth open and a thick stream of semen sliding down her tongue to her cleavage. A twelve-second video where he had her by the hair, fucking her from behind against the edge of a table, while she repeated “harder, daddy, harder” in a broken voice I had never heard from her.

At one point, Sebastián suggested bringing in a friend. She resisted. She said no, that that wasn’t for her, that the game was getting out of hand. He insisted with cold calm:

—Relax, babe. Nobody’s forcing you. But tell me the truth. Doesn’t it turn you on to think about two pairs of hands on your body, two hard cocks just for you, one in your mouth and another in your cunt, not knowing which one’s going to fill you first?

Camila took a while to answer. And in the end she wrote:

—I’m going to go. But if I decide to stop, you respect that.

I closed the phone. Put it back exactly where I’d found it. Washed my face with ice-cold water. Looked at myself in the mirror for a long time. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t angry. I was thinking.

***

Over the following days I kept being the same boyfriend as always. I kissed her on the forehead when she left for class. Asked about her lessons. Brought her coffee when she stayed up late studying. Every time she said “I love you,” in my head I heard Sebastián’s “yes, daddy,” word for word. It helped me keep smiling.

Meanwhile, I prepared things.

I rented a small house on the outskirts, one with two entrances and a large living room with a soft rug that stretched from the bedroom to the center of the lounge. I bought candles, incense, a couple of bottles, some snacks. I also bought the lingerie I’d been asking Camila to wear for months and she had always refused to use “until a special occasion.” Purple and pink lace, her favorite colors. A piece that covered very little and promised a lot: a bodysuit open at the crotch, with thin straps crossing her back and a sheer string thong that left everything there was to see on display.

I told her about a different weekend, a romantic surprise, a night just for the two of us. Her face lit up. She told me I was the best boyfriend in the world. She kissed me like I was the only man on the planet. That same night she knelt in the hallway for me, pulled down my pants and sucked me off slowly, looking up at me from below with those big eyes, and I thought while I came in her mouth that those lips were a revolving door through which half the city had passed.

Then I opened three new conversations from a number that wasn’t mine. I wrote to Rodrigo, Daniel, and Sebastián. The message was identical for all three: private party, discreet house, girls, alcohol, address, time. No names, no signature, no explanations. None of them asked anything. All three said yes before an hour had passed. As easy as luring bees with honey.

***

On Sunday I closed the blinds, lit the candles, and put on soft music. Camila arrived in a flowered dress and the smile she wore on first dates. I poured her a drink. I told her the surprise was in the bedroom, on the bed. She went to change with a little giggle.

Meanwhile, through the back service door, the guests began arriving. Rodrigo first, then Daniel, and finally Sebastián. None of them knew each other. They exchanged weird looks, asked about the others, didn’t know how to answer one another. I served them beer, put out some snacks, turned up the music. The house smelled of incense, the lights were warm, and after a few minutes the three of them were laughing like old friends. Curiosity and alcohol are a generous mix.

When the three of them were settled on the living room sofa, I went to the bedroom. Camila already had the lingerie on. She was standing in front of the mirror, biting her lip, turning to look at herself from the side. The purple bodysuit clung to her body, her nipples pressed hard against the delicate lace, the piercings outlined through the weave. The string thong dug between her ass cheeks and in front left her shaved cunt visible, already a little wet, with pink lips peeking through the fabric. Her eyes were shining.

—It fits you perfectly —I told her.

—It’s beautiful —she said—. What’s all this for?

—I want tonight to be different. Trust me.

I took a silk scarf from my pocket. I asked her to close her eyes. I tied it softly at the nape of her neck, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, kissed her cheek. She gave a little nervous, playful laugh. I ran my tongue along her neck, bit her earlobe, brushed her cunt over the lace with two fingers. Camila moaned softly and spread her legs a centimeter.

—Where are we going? —she whispered.

—Wherever the rug takes you. Walk slowly. There’s no way you’ll trip.

I took her by the hand and led her down the hallway. Her bare feet followed the texture of the rug like an invisible thread. I kept whispering in her ear not to ask anything, to let herself be carried, to just feel.

***

The bedroom opened directly into the living room. Five steps. When I crossed the threshold with her, the three men stopped talking at the same time. Rodrigo lowered his glass. Daniel sat up straight on the sofa. Sebastián clenched his jaw, not knowing where to put his gaze.

Camila moved forward with that sweet innocence that had once made me fall in love. The purple lace barely covered her. Her nipples showed tight under the thin fabric, the piercings drawn through the weave. In front, the pink cunt could be made out between the lace strands. In back, her ass was fully exposed, only split by the thong string. The piece was designed to provoke, not to hide, and it fit her as if it had been sewn on her body.

She started bouncing lightly on her feet, impatient, like a child waiting for a present.

—How much longer are you going to make me wait? —she said in that playful tone I knew by heart—. I’m soaked, love, touch me already.

Not knowing that her voice was bouncing around a room that was no longer just ours.

Each little hop turned her into something else. Her breasts bounced softly under the lace, her hips swayed with almost obscene naturalness, the curve of her ass trembled slightly with each movement, and in front the lips of her cunt peeped through the string, shining with moisture. She smiled, coquettish, confident, believing only I was looking at her. She ran a hand over her breast, pinched her own nipple through the lace, licked her finger. That tonight was still ours.

The three men didn’t move. Caught between desire and guilt, looking at the same woman each of them believed they had to themselves on Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays. Rodrigo had a bulge showing in his pants. Daniel licked his lips without realizing it. Sebastián breathed through his nose, deep, long, like someone holding back a thrust. Camila kept bouncing, not knowing, offering herself whole to three pairs of eyes that had had her on her knees, from behind, face down, on all fours.

I stayed at the door, silent, watching the whole scene. Not out of cruelty. Not as punishment. For something smaller and uglier that I still don’t know how to name.

Seeing her exposed wasn’t the strongest part. The strongest part was anticipating the exact second when she would untie the scarf, open her eyes, and understand that the cake I had prepared had a piece for each guest — except for the boyfriend.